Here In Ikebukuro
by iguanablogger
Summary: A collection of prompts done for my tumblr blog, "Here-In-Ikebukuro", a blog dedicated to the various characters of Durarara!. I generally attempt to write one prompt a week (the previous prompt, "Tied", was very long, so I made it its own story). Contains various pairing fluff as well as humor and drama.
1. Hairball

Namie Yagiri scowled and stirred the pot. The soup within bubbled and boiled as violently as the malice in her own heart. Damn that Izaya, she thought vehemently, giving the side of the pot a good thwack to dislodge some dill from the ladle. Namie was a scientist, an intelligent, well-respected (until recently), grant-possessing scientist. Who was he to tell her to make him dinner? Was she some sort of servant? A maid? He did nothing but sit as his computer all day and laugh at his stupid, nonsensical checkerboard! Izaya could take five minutes to make his own dinner.

The steam rising from the stew combined with the indignant flame in Namie's cheeks to produce a thin layer of sweat. She huffed in annoyance and brushed her bangs away from her forehead, drying off some moisture in the process. She pulled an elastic band from her wrist and began brushing her waist-length hair with her fingers. It was Namie's custom to tie her hair back whenever she was cooking, but she'd been so upset she forgot about it. Keeping her hair back ensured she stayed cool, and at the same time prevented-

Namie halted at once. Then she grinned wickedly to herself.

Maybe she wouldn't tie her hair back this time…

Later that evening, Namie happily served the stew to her employer.

"It smells lovely, Namie." Izaya complimented with closed eyes as she placed the bowl in front of him.

"Remind me again why I need to make you dinner?" Namie asked through a clenched smile.

"Because, as my housewife-"

"Secretary."

"-Same thing. As my housewife, it's your duty to make sure that I'm well taken care of, and that includes cooking my meals. Or do you enjoy not having a job?"

Namie decided to ignore him and sat down to her own food. She watched Izaya out of the corner of her eye as he dipped his spoon into the broth and lifted it to his lips.

Go on, she sneered inwardly, take a sip.

Suddenly, Izaya laughed. Namie's expression turned to surprise as he put his spoon on the table and shook his head.

"Namie," He admonished playfully, "did you really think I wouldn't notice that?"

"Notice what?" Namie retorted.

Izaya inserted two fingers into the soup and pinched something. What he brought out of it, dripping and coiled, was a two-foot-long hair. Namie scowled, her face burning with embarrassment.

"Nice try."

Izaya dropped the hair onto the floor and then continued to eat his soup. They continued in silence for a minute or so, Namie still too riled up to speak.

Then something strange happened.

Izaya started to cough, at first only as though clearing his throat, but then heavier. Namie watched keenly as his eyes went wide and his fingers flew to his mouth, clawing to pull something out. She grinned as his windpipe momentarily closed and he choked.

And then he vomited it right on the table. A hairball. He'd probably mistaken it for a meat dumpling, as Namie had taken care to wind the strings so thickly around each other that they wouldn't look suspicious at all. The first hair was one that came loose.

Izaya's face was pale and his breathing was still a bit hoarse. His eyes were wide and rimmed with tears, and he coughed strongly a few more times.

Namie laughed. She laughed hard and long, hitting her hand on the table. Izaya glared at her. It was as though someone had just told the funniest joke in the world, and Namie just couldn't get it out of her head. She actually fell out of her chair and sat dumbly on her bottom, crying with laughter.

"I could fire you for that, you know." Izaya pointed out, pushing the bowl away.

Namie burst into another heap of giggles.

She snorted, "Nah, you'd never find a housewife who loves you as much as I do."

"I mean, think about it." Namie told him as she shakily climbed to her feet. She cleared the last of the laughter from her voice and locked eyes with him.

"Anyone else would have used poison


	2. The Day She Stopped Listening

A cold wind swept through the grass, littering it with dead leaves. It didn't bother the two men standing at the edge of the forest, both of whom were well adjusted to its chill. One was tall and thick as a tree trunk; his dark skin created an eerie contrast with his clear blue eyes. The other was thin and pale with shoulder length hair tied behind his ears. They stood in silence, the only words between them uttered by the wind as it combed through the forest.

It had been two years since they'd agreed to train Douglanikov's daughter. Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, both men had been searching everywhere for work. They had been just short of leaving Russia when Douglanikov's offer arose. It wasn't ideal, but they did owe him a favor. Douglanikov had done well for himself, with a large, distinguished house surrounded by a forest, isolated and beautiful at the same time. The two agents took the time to set up an archery range at the border of the estate's grassy field. It yielded satisfactory results. When the girl wasn't using it to practice, they enjoyed playing with it a little themselves.

Their pupil had excused herself an hour ago; she claimed she wasn't feeling well. As the girl was twelve years old, neither man decided it was necessary to know any more than that. However, soon another sound joined the wind in its interruption of their silence: the dull thuds of small feet crunching grass.

The agents ignored her. Soon the footsteps stopped. The thin man proceeded to sharpen his throwing knife; the other took a seat on a bale of hay. No words were exchanged. It was as if the girl simply had nothing to say. She was tiny, frail, and as perfect as a doll. Her blonde hair wisped around her face in the wind, curling around her ears and lips. When she finally spoke it was in a voice as sharp as steel.

"How strong are you, Samiya?"

Samiya, the larger man with the lucent eyes, answered at a measured pace.

"Very strong."

The girl approached him; he allowed her. If he had been standing, she would only have reached his stomach. But as he was perched on his bale of hay, they were able to meet eye-to-eye.

She asked cautiously, "Is there anyone who is stronger than you?"

Samiya pretended to consider the question, but his thoughts were on a much more serious tribulation. He worried for the child. When Douglanikov had requested that they teach her weapons training, Samiya had adamantly refused. It took a month of coaxing, on both father's and daughter's behalves, to tease an agreement from him. Even now, he believed it was the wrong choice.

"Certainly."

"How do you know? Have you fought everyone in the world?"

Samiya set his jaw, staving off irritation. This was when she flustered him most. Her face was eager, her wide eyes hungry.

"No," Samiya replied narrowly, "Nor do I need to. There will always be someone stronger, _malenkaya._"

The expression left her empty. She bowed her head until he could no longer see what she was thinking. Her hair twirled around her neck and covered her eyes. Samiya shared a quick glance with his partner, wondering if he'd given the correct response.

"Samiya…" she said at length.

He remained silent. Her voice was colder than the wind.

"…you are so stupid."

Again, Samiya did not reply. He merely spectated, hiding behind his guarded visage. When Douglanikov's daughter looked at him, it was with contempt.

"You know how weak humans are. How easy it is to break them. How are you content to sit here and ignore your talents? If you know that someone out there is stronger than you are then why don't you try to find them?"

"Because there is no reason to," Samiya answered sternly, "because there is more to life than strength and fighting and killing."

She shook her head quickly, anxious to show her disapproval.

"Wrong. If we are not constantly proving ourselves to others- _affecting _others, how do we know we're even alive? If I spend my whole life sitting here-"

"-I am teaching you how to defend yourself." Samiya interrupted, glaring at the girl harshly, "Nothing more. And I am doing it because your father asked me to as a favor-"

"But you're more powerful than he is!" She argued vehemently, frustration heating her words. "Why should you listen to him when he is clearly weak-!"

"Do not talk that way about your father!"

"You can kill my father for all I care!"

It was the loudest thing he'd ever heard her say. It was a cry, a scream. Samiya sat back, willing his blood to cool. The girl's mouth was pressed firmly shut, but her eyes held no regret. She meant what she said. Her outburst replayed itself over and over again, whispered through the leaves of the forest.

Samiya reached out and took her pallid hand in his. He spoke to her gently:

"You should not say such serious things, _malenkaya-_"

She yanked her hand away, cradling her wrist where he'd touched it.

"Don't call me that!" She lashed out, "I'm not a child!"

"Then what are you?" Samiya challenged, "You are so young. What great experiences have you had, ah? What lessons do you have to teach me?"

Indignation burned on her cheeks. She stepped back, still rubbing her wrist. Samiya continued to stare at her; he did not break contact. Finally, she turned on her heel and ran. The two ex-Soviets watched her form as it grew smaller and smaller, sprinting up the hill to where Douglanikov's estate waited.

"Did anyone ever tell you you'd make a great dad, Semyon?" Dennis asked drily, taking out another throwing knife.

Samiya said nothing. He only sighed and leaned his weight onto his knees. His eyes fell on the trampled grass she'd stood on moments earlier.

"That girl…" He confided, his voice thick with sadness, "…one day, she will stop listening."

Semyon prayed that when that day came, he was not the one speaking.


	3. If I Am Not Myself

An electric bell concluded the last class of the day, releasing the children of Tokyo's most prestigious elementary school from the shackles of learning. Chairs groaned against the floor as the students rose in their seats. The class bowed to their teacher and then broke formation, each child heading to a different place. Some went to talk with their friends; others went to their lockers to pick up their equipment.

Akane Awakusu stayed in her seat. One or two of her classmates approached her, assuming she was lost in thought. They told her it was time to go home. Akane smiled at them and replied that she had a meeting to attend. You could get away with lies like that when you were class president.

Slowly but steadily, the classroom emptied out. The teacher put away the last of her notebooks and turned to face Akane with a worried grimace. She knew it was against the rules for a child to stay overtime. But like everyone else in the school, she knew better than to challenge Akane Awakusu. The woman opened her mouth and then shut it, shaking her head.

"Have a nice day, Awakusu-chan."

Her tone was infinitely cautious, as though simply mentioning the infamous mafia family would make her a suspect. It hurt deeper than Akane would ever be able to express. Her name was a curse.

Akane watched her teacher's skirt as it fluttered out the door and away from view. She continued to sit in her seat, unmoving. There was so much to think about; so much to discuss. After having discovered the truth about her family, Akane imagined that things would change. Suddenly, her peers would be whispering about her in awed tones and the police would be tailing her without reason, or drug dealers would wink at her on the street and unmarked vans would be waiting for her around every corner.

But nothing changed. Everyone continued to exempt her. Not because she was brilliant, or charming, or lucky, as she had always believed, but because her last name was Awakusu.

The ten-year-old slipped out of her chair, rising to her feet. She quietly exited the classroom and moved into the hallway. The tapping of her shoes against the tiled floor echoed all around, bouncing from metal locker to metal locker. The hallway was a lie, just like everything else. It pretended to be full of life, heady with the giggles of little children, brimming with purpose and anticipation. But this was the reality; a ghost room. A silent corridor where every movement was explicit and every thought felt like a mistake. It was enough to send chills down the young girl's spine.

Akane reached the stairwell and pushed the door open. The musty scent of disuse filled her nostrils. Akane began her ascent with her hand on the cold metal railing. Dust particles flitted through the air, carried by thick beams of tawny sunlight. The stairwell was much warmer than the hallway had been. Apparently, it did not possess ducts to channel central air. Akane continued to climb, unbothered by the sweat dampening her tight collar. She soon arrived at the top platform.

A cool breeze embraced Akane as she walked out onto the roof. The wind felt wonderful, erasing the flush from her face. It was bright up here. Akane wondered if the sun grew brighter and brighter the higher a person was. If so, how difficult it must be for airplane pilots to fly, she mused. The sky was cloudless that day. Akane drew near to the edge of the roof, laying her hands on the safety rail. Tokyo spread out beneath her like a child's play set, complete with automated train tracks. People went about their business as tiny insects. Sounds drifted up from the pavement, garbled and warped. Akane inhaled deeply as another breeze lifted her hair off her shoulders.

What would it be like, she pondered, to have been born a normal girl? She thought she'd known. But the revelation of her family's heritage had distorted everything; it was like watching the world through tinted sunglasses, and then having someone tear those lenses away. When she put the glasses back on, she would know that she was seeing a deformation.

A fake.

How much of this world was fake, then? Where did the delusions end? Or were all humans as confused, as Akane had been? How many people never dared to take the glasses off? How many still did not know they were wearing them? Of all of the girls in all of the fifth-grade classes in Tokyo, Akane Awakusu was the only one asking these questions. However, she wasn't sure if she wanted to hear them answered.

Akane pushed her weight onto the safety rail. She swung one leg over the side, then the other, still grasping onto the railing for support. There. She'd done it. Nothing stood between her and the concrete below but fifty feet of air. Akane sucked in a breath and held it tight. Her knees wobbled when she looked down. There was no one around. There was no one to see. When she fell, there would be no one to blame. What would the Awakusu do now? Their beloved princess, dead by gravity's hand. She imagined Shiki declaring war on the earth. They would want revenge because she was their property and she had been destroyed.

But she wasn't. Akane could prove that. She lifted one foot over the edge. It hovered there, quaking from side to side. One tiny step. Three centimeters of distance. And then she would be no more. If she died, would the Awakusu disperse? They would have no princess, no heir. As of right now, it seemed obvious that Akane would take over her father's position someday. She scowled in disgust. Did they truly think they could seal her future that easily?

The Awakusu did not own her because she owned their name.

Akane placed her foot back on solid ground and let out a sigh. She smiled. Then, she pushed herself back over the rail and entered the stairwell, desecending to ground floor. She had just proven to herself that she was still in control of her own destiny. Akane Awakusu would _not _be a mob boss. She would grow up independent of her family's past. She would become a painter and work at her grandfather's gallery. Akane could keep her last name and not be a curse.

And one day, maybe...her name could bring her pride.


	4. Mediterranean Seafood Medley

Tom used a corner of his apron to wipe the smudge of steam from his glasses. There, all better. As long as he didn't stick his head directly over the rim of the pot, he'd be fine. He gingerly dipped a tablespoon into the oil, swirling it as he adjusted the flame with his other hand. Tom estimated it would take another two or three minutes to boil.

"All done, Tanaka-san!" A cheerful voice chirped from the counter behind him.

Tom twisted around to have a bowl of vegetables shoved under his nose. He took the bowl and placed it on the spot of open space beside the stove.

"Thank you, Akane." He told the girl with a smile.

Akane beamed and wiped her hands on her skirt. She was the very image of a spirited kitchen aid, with a white kerchief securing her hair and a cloth apron fastened over her blouse. Tom added the vegetables to the simmering pot of oil and placed the lid on its top. Ten minutes and they would be soft enough to chew.

"Is there anything else I can help with?" Akane asked, clasping her hands behind her back.

Tom crossed the room and stopped in front of the sink. He picked up the strainer of baby squid and carried back to the stove.

"Sure," He said, poking the squid with a fork to test their tenderness, "Why don't you go set the table?"

Akane grinned broadly.

"Okay!"

As soon as she was out of the room, Tom heaved a sigh. He knew the kid meant well, but she had no idea how much stress she generated for all of the adults around her.

When the average person thought of Tom Tanaka, they pictured a stern debt collector in a suit. His name and the word 'debt' had become synonymous at one point or another. But at the moment, Tom couldn't have fit that frame any less: gone were the formal clothes, replaced with a long sleeved t-shirt and a pair of comfortable slacks. His elbows were swollen with the rolled fabric of his sleeves. An apron hung from his shoulders and protected his torso from the crackling and spitting oil bubbles rising from the stove. His thick dreadlocks, usually dangling freely, were clipped to the top of his head in an almost feminine ponytail.

Most people would call this sort of cooking extravagant; gourmet, even. Tom had been standing at this stove all afternoon, putting up pots of water, measuring oil, peeling vegetables, cleaning fish, et cetera, et cetera. He enjoyed it; Tom loved cooking- the more difficult the recipe, the better. So when he absently mentioned one of his new cookbooks to Shizuo, he hadn't anticipated a response. It was a hobby, nothing more.

But when Shizuo mentioned it Akane, and Akane mentioned it to Vorona…

Tom hadn't planned on company tonight. But when the head of an infamous, citywide mafia calls you up and informs you that his daughter has accepted your invitation, it is exceedingly difficult to say no. So, he thought, why not make something of it and invite everyone? Akane was doing such a lovely job helping him, even though her vegetable chopping left something to be desired (specifically, more vegetables).

Tom glanced over his shoulder as he reached for a can of tomato paste. Akane was dutifully carrying a stack of plates to the dining area, humming as she walked. He wasn't particularly worried about her, but he had received a rather threatening email from Shiki of the Awakusu only an hour after speaking with her father. Shiki attached a list of Akane's personal preferences, allergies, and other details and added severe consequences should any of the following be violated or ignored. A normal person might have gone to the police, but when you spend as much time around Shizuo Heiwajima as Tom did, things like that stopped worrying you.

The apartment's electric buzzer blared from the hallway, causing Tom to pick his head up from his measurements. Akane poked into the kitchen, looking to Tom for further direction. The buzzer went off again.

"Come in!" Tom beckoned loudly.

The door creaked open and two people entered, dropping various shopping bags down on the shoe-mat by the frame. Akane broke into a run, rushing past Tom in a whirlwind of air.

"Shizuo-san!" Akane greeted the tall blonde; arms wide open for a hug.

Shizuo caught her with a laugh and lifted her up. Akane wedged herself comfortably in the crook of his elbow, bobbing as Shizuo made his way to the kitchen.

"Good to see you, Shizuo," Tom said, nodding to his friend as he poured a cup of wine into the pot. "Is Vorona here?"

"Yeah- we picked up some ice cream for dessert. That alright?"

"Ice cream?" Akane gasped, staring up at Shizuo in complete idolization, "What flavors?"

"Only cookie-dough, chocolate fudge, and caramel ribbon." Shizuo replied, nudging Akane's nose with his own. She giggled in delight and nuzzled him back.

"Ice cream is fine," Tom answered, replacing the lid on the pot and entering a fifteen-minute interval to the stove's timer, "I'll go put it in the freezer."

"Uh, Tom-" Shizuo intercepted him before he could leave the kitchen. "Is there anything I can do?"

Tom shrugged.

"Well, Vorona can help Akane finish the table. The food should be done in another twenty minutes or so…you should pick out a movie for us to watch."

It was a pale effort. The truth was that Tom didn't want Shizuo and his brute strength anywhere near his kitchen, and they both knew it.

"Right. Yeah."

Shizuo stepped aside and let Tom through to his entrance hallway. Three small cartons of ice cream were sitting on the floor in a plastic grocery bag. From the corner of his eye, Tom could see Akane and Vorona setting glasses down on the table. He admired Vorona's figure as he stooped low to gather the ice cream. She hadn't gone through the trouble of changing since work that morning, still wearing her thin white vest and shorts. Tom considered what a beautiful woman she was as he walked to the freezer.

After clearing away some pots and pans that were no longer necessary, Tom visited the sitting room. He found Akane and Shizuo flipping through his DVD collection, comparing Disney films. Vorona sat on the couch, watching them with what Tom would describe as envy.

"What would you like to watch, miss Vorona?" He asked jokingly.

Vorona stared at him quizzically before answering.

"Negative. I do not desire to watch anyone at this time. Does my conduct suggest otherwise?"

Tom pressed his lips together, smiling nervously behind them. He wasn't sure if she'd misinterpreted the question or her own response. Then again, Vorona's strange speaking patterns were just a part of her exotic charm.

"Uh, no. You're good."

A shrill beep emanated from the kitchen, calling Tom back to check on his boiled shellfish. The tips of the mollusk's shells had just begun to open; perfect. Tom extracted a skillet from his kitchen cabinet and placed it on the stove over a flame. All that was left to cook were the sea bass filets and the fennel.

He sprinkled the fish with salt and pepper and slipped them into the pan, prodding them now and again to ensure they didn't stick. Tom was allowed several minutes alone in the kitchen with the food, but eventually Shizuo reappeared.

"Need anything else?" Shizuo asked, running a hand through his hair.

Tom shook his head, not moving his eyes from the skillet. Shizuo took a seat at the kitchen counter and folded his hands. It was somewhat nerve-tingling knowing that Shizuo was watching him, but after a while it was clear that no harm was meant. Shizuo respected Tom's wishes.

"It smells amazing, Tom." Shizuo admitted to him, a large smile on his face.

Tom couldn't help returning the gesture. It was pretty hard to make Shizuo grin like that.

As soon as the fish was done, Tom put a lid on the skillet and heaved the other pot to the counter. The spicy aroma of stewed vegetables billowed into the air when Tom removed its metal covering. He laid four plates out and covered each with a thin crust of vegetables. Then he walked back to the stove and procured the boiled shellfish, bringing them to the counter and decorating the rims of the plates with their popped shells. Tom opened the skillet and placed three filets in the center of each plate, creating a masterpiece of a meal. Finally, as the finishing touch, Tom arranged the chopped fennel around the fish and drizzled the entire plate with a layer of sauce.

Dinner was ready.

Akane, Vorona, and Shizuo sat themselves at the dining room table while Tom brought them their food, beaming with satisfaction. The house was absolutely permeated with the delicious scents of fried fish and spice. The medley's taste was like nothing any of the guests (excepting Akane) had ever had the opportunity to enjoy. Shizuo attested to its excellence more than once, and Vorona's eyes were wide and curious. She had never experienced food of this caliber; she'd never had the time. Even Akane managed to clean her plate.

Tom absorbed their compliments with appropriate modesty, assuring them that he did this sort of thing for fun. He didn't know how to express the love he felt when he saw them savoring his meal. It just felt good, correct, fulfilling.

Vorona helped Tom clear the table while Shizuo turned on the TV in the sitting room. In the end, Akane decided that they would watch 'Finding Nemo' with no objections. Tom volunteered to prepare ice cream dishes for everyone while they got comfortable. However when he returned to the sitting room with dessert, he noticed some disagreement. It appeared that the girls were fighting over who got to sit next to Shizuo.

"Yo," Shizuo waved Tom over with a raised hand.

Akane was pressed firmly into his right side while Vorona was grasping his left arm close to her chest. The two were glaring at each other vehemently.

"You girls better quit it," Tom warned them, "or you're not getting ice cream."

Akane's behavior improved instantly and Tom handed over her treat. After allowing his boss to settle into the couch, Shizuo clicked a button on the remote and the movie began. Tom had forgotten how splendid the soundtrack was, coloring the room with warm strings. Children's movies were often superior in that way; their music was so much more empathetic.

If the women continued to quarrel during the movie, nobody noticed. The carpet soon filled with empty dishes as Marlin and Dory's adventures entertained them. An hour pleasantly crawled past, then forty-five minutes rolled after it. By the end of the movie, the room's only illumination was the blue glare of the television. Tom blinked hard and rolled his stiff muscles. Akane slept peacefully in Shizuo's lap, her head rising and falling with his breath. Vorona leaned against his shoulder, her lips pinched in confusion. It may have been a trick of the light, but Tom thought he spied tear tracks on Shizuo's cheeks.

Tom got to his feet and turned on the sitting room lamp. Vorona deactivated the TV while Shizuo tried to coax Akane awake with no success. The little girl was sound asleep.

"Thanks for everything, Tom." Shizuo said as Tom walked them to the door. Crickets droned through the windows, inviting the night to stay.

"It's no problem," Tom replied earnestly, "you sure you're alright taking them home?"

Shizuo nodded, adjusting Akane's weight in his arms. Vorona still looked unhappy. When Tom asked what was wrong, she simply answered:

"Illogical. A father's love for his offspring is not that strong. It is inconceivable."

"It's a story about a talking clownfish, Vorona," Shizuo explained, amused, "I don't think their depiction of a father-son relationship is your biggest problem."

Vorona blushed and mumbled to herself, "Unrealistic expectation. Unfair. Unwanted precedent."

"Okay," Tom chuckled, opening the front door, "no more Disney movies for you."

Tom and Vorona thanked him again before leaving. He closed the door after them and locked it, setting his security alarm. He had a sink full of dishes to wash, leftovers to package, and ingredients to put away. It was a lot of work, but Tom was glad for it. As he scrubbed the skillet clean, he fondly wished to repeat tonight sometime. Spending time with the three of them was almost like having a family.


End file.
